


Secrets And Untruths

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Acceptance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Canon - Book and TV Combination, Canon - TV, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Dad Lord Asriel, Daemons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Identity Reveal, Injury Recovery, LGBTQ Themes, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Minor Character Death, Oxford, Pre-Season/Series 01, Secrets, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Asriel invites Lyra to join him on a walk through Oxford, enjoying each other’s wit and company until the peace is shattered.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon
Comments: 25
Kudos: 87





	Secrets And Untruths

**Author's Note:**

> OHHH. I'VE BEEN EAGER TO POST THIS ONE. We know Gerard Bonneville died in "La Belle Sauvage" but for this,,,, he lives. You don't need to have read the book to know what's happening. I put what you need to know in. WELL I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS DADRIEL. IT'S MY LONGEST ONE SO FAR. Any kind of comments/thoughts are welcomed! 🥰❤️

*

It's not often that Lord Asriel returns to Brytain for more than a few days.

Lyra doesn't remember him staying in one place for long if he could help it. Not with her, not with his colleagues from London and not under the orders of anyone who outranks Lord Asriel. Suppose that's the whims of a famous explorer.

He arrives by dawn, ill-tempered and running his fingers through his hair streaking silver. No luggage. No personal items.

She wonders sometimes what Lord Asriel thinks about from day to day. If he concerns himself with thoughts of losing his expensive, gold-edged compass, or what his favourite meal is, or if he is ever afraid. It's hard to imagine someone hardened by survival instincts and too gloriously powerful to both his enemies and allies like her uncle be _frightened_ of anything.

Roger brings her an unpolished brass tray of eggs and fried, juicy ham and toast, climbing up the many tower-steps into Lord Asriel's bedroom. He nods shyly to Lord Asriel who passes him, acknowledging Roger with a noncommittal grunt. His footsteps heavy.

The noise of Stelmaria's throaty, cautious wrawl makes Roger jump back. Saliclia whispers to him apprehensively, flittering as a ruby-throated hummingbird to Roger's tiny, freckled nose. Lyra distinctly remembers introducing him to Roger in the past, and she _doubts_ Lord Asriel remembers him. He's not very good at remembering anything important in Lyra's life.

The thought sours the fresh, fragrant honey dissolving in Lyra's mouth. She sets down what remains of her toast, frowning contemplatively, picking up one of the hard-boiled eggs. Lyra's nails shred into the delicate, white shell, flaking it.

"Sit up straight."

Lord Asriel has a pair of _strange_ eyes to her. Lovely, but so strange. Bluer than the photos of glacial ice Lyra found while digging around in her uncle's zeppelin-crates. She straightens her spine begrudgingly. As soon as Lord Asriel glances away, refilling his cup of water, Lyra hunches her shoulders broodingly. Pantalaimon tuts in her ear, clearly disapproving of her behaviour, and burrows into Lyra's dark strands as a mole.

She nibbles on her egg, letting her mind wander, throwing herself down flat and staring dully at the window's edge.

In the utmost corner, a little, black spider crawls out. Lyra narrows her eyes with intrigue. The spider crawls onto her forefinger when the little girl stretches her hand out, perching itself on Lyra's knuckle and not doing much else. A terrible, _terrible_ idea comes to mind.

" _No, no, we're going to get in so much trouble_ _…_ " Pantalaimon murmurs, groaning fretfully in her ear.

Peering over her shoulder, she can gleefully see Lord Asriel has his back to her. He's examining a scrap of paper on the round, bare table. Lyra forgets about the reminder of her hard-boiled egg, slowly edging off her bed and tiptoeing towards him. Lord Asriel's neck exposes pale skin and his hairline as he inclines his head forward, grumbling to Stelmaria also facing away from Lyra.

Above all else, Lyra fears and respects and loves her uncle without any doubt, yes… but the temptation is _far greater_.

She prepares to drop the spider into the opening of Lord Asriel's collar—

"—Lyra," her uncle speaks up, his tone flat.

"Huh?" Lyra quickly draws her hand behind her, giving an innocent look to Stelmaria's tawny eyes observing her. "I wasn't—"

"Whatever foolishness this is, it can wait." Lord Asriel stands on his feet, towering over her. "I have business to attend on Queen Street. If you're coming along—then we're leaving now." He doesn't bother telling her more, strolling out.

Lyra eyes Pantalaimon who appears as baffled as her. "Now?" she asks, not receiving an answer, but following after him.

An unusual amount of excitement fills her.

(Her uncle never grants her permission to wander beyond the grounds of Jordan College. Not that it has ever _stopped_ Lyra before. He's rarely here to witness for himself if Lyra disobeys his command.)

*

The air feels crisp and cool on Lyra's face. Smells like rainfall.

She walks down the cobblestones, peeking into the alleys where the vans unload goods for the markets. Her nostrils pick up the hot, sweet odour of roasting oils. They sell everything from potted hare to cheese-and-onion pies to whole iced cases of butchered ox — depending on the season, Lyra would find an array of crab bowls, prawn, trout, clams, and such. Plums from Catalonia so dark they could be black. Dick Orchard stole a tub of baked apple and custard pudding for their group once.

Close to the marketplace, the buildings are smaller and less grand. Lord Asriel walks down the paths leading into narrower lanes fringed by the overflowing mulberry trees, letting Stelmaria go ahead of them to watch for any suspicious figures. He walks in long, sure strides like the entirety of Oxford _belongs_ in the palm of his hand. Lyra is sure her uncle _wouldn't_ want that. He's no conqueror.

Lyra gazes to the herring sellers and oystermen haggling off in the distance. A few boys loiter nearby, smoking, whistling to her and gesturing rudely with hands on their crotches. She gestures back mockingly, sticking out her tongue all the way out.

Then they notice Lord Asriel, formidable and aggressive and his expression saturnine, and go white, retreating.

Idiots, Lyra huffs.

"Do you recognise where we are?"

She falters, listening to her uncle's stern voice.

"Uhm, yes," Lyra mutters. He waits expectantly for her to continue. "That's New Road. It connects to Park End Street," she says, pointing ahead. "Jessie Reynolds threw a rock at a pigeon hopping and broke its neck. There was a lot of blood…"

"Is that what interests you rather than your studies?"

"No," Lyra declares, staring up incredulously into his blue eyes when they both stop walking. "It was cruel of her to do that."

"Hmm." An agreeable noise. "What else?"

"Down there is St Giles and the Oratory of St Ann Magdalen. Me and one of the kitchen girls from St. Michael's College… _we_ …" Lyra's throat suddenly feels like swelling shut. "We stole from… an vegetable cart left out. She…"

"She…?" Lord Asriel echos her, but he doesn't remark on the act of stealing. Lyra swallows hard, her heart rabbiting.

"She _kissed_ me." Her cheeks flood warmly with bright pink colour. Her uncle regards Lyra's shame but without any trace of harshness. Lyra grips to her dress-pocket where Pantalaimon, forming as the smallest mouse possible, keeps himself close to her breast. "When I sliced her potato for her. She thanked me and… I dunno, I felt _her_ … her lips touch mine…"

"Did you run away?"

"Yes…"

His eyebrows twitch up. "That must have hurt her feelings," Lord Ariel says, more astonished than carrying any judgement.

Lyra frowns. "But we're not suppos—"

"You can kiss _anyone_ you so desire, Lyra. That's all. It's not important what gender they are." He looks so earnest, crouching down in front of her and holding onto her shoulder. Dark brown, leather-gloved fingers clutch down. Lyra doesn't think she's ever seen him so passionate about a conversation. "No matter what someone else tells you… no matter how the Magisterium attempts to convince you… there is nothing _wrong_ with your desires. I won't have you believing otherwise. Understood?"

"Yes," Lyra answers honestly. She watches the tension unfurl out of him, as Lord Asriel releases her. His mouth flattens down a smile warring against him. As soon as he's back to walking, Lyra scurries over curiously. "… Did you kiss a boy once, Uncle?"

"Several here and there," he says briskly. Her jaw goes slack. Lyra gawks. "Not a very entertaining story for a young Jordan girl."

It doesn't seem like a lark. She wouldn't _dare_ suggest he was making this up, and especially not to Lord Asriel's face.

" _Who_ —?"

"Let's move along now," Lord Asriel interrupts firmly.

*

It's difficult to keep up with him sometimes.

Once they're in the centre of Queen Street, weaving around persons jostling each other teasingly and strolling for the Covered Market, Lyra stares to a decorative iron-and-glass window as her uncle approaches a less occupied shoppe. Lord Asriel pulls open its glass-lined door, the old iron hinges creaking. A tiny, silver bell chimes from above the entrance.

The shopkeeper — a portly, greying man, with spectacles so big and thick that Lyra could hardly make out his eyes — greets Lord Asriel in a polite but distant manner. As if he was anticipating him. Reluctance lines his forehead.

She's not certain what her uncle wants, but Lyra knows he _will_ get it. Lord Asriel _always_ get what he wants. Somehow.

Lyra daydreams a little, about sword-fighting with broken tree branches. She daydreams about going back to the rows of steaming-hot dishes and insisting to try oatbread, and daydreams about the kitchen girl's plump lips nudging and smirking to Lyra's mouth bitten red. How soft. How warm and terrifying and _wonderful_ all at once. Lyra flushes at the memory, distracting herself by observing what's around her.

That's when she feels Lord Asriel's hand pressed between her shoulder-blades. Lyra finds herself crowded by him, gazing up to the shopkeeper bestowing her with an overly friendly smile. His blackbird daemon warbles. "Hello, my dear," he says.

"Hello," Lyra murmurs, remembering to be courteous.

"It's very nice to meet you. My name is Fredrick Reeves, but you may call me Mister Fredrick." He smiles wider and Lyra can see the yellowing in his gums. The old, acrid smell of smokeleaf hovers off him. "You're practically as tall as my Olga."

"Thank you, Mister Fredrick."

He gives her a stick of chocolat, patting the top of Lyra's head. She doesn't mind. Not if Lyra can eat the whole stick _right now_.

Lord Asriel turns away, saying nothing about the chocolat, discussing something lowly and urgently with Mister Fredrick for another minute.

The other man disappears briefly, marching to the counter and into a room hidden by velvety, deep green curtains. He returns, less reluctant than before, passing a bulging item wrapped and taped up in newspaper. Lyra follows her uncle out of the shoppe, taking another hunk of chocolat into her mouth and chewing loudly. Lord Asriel tucks away his new possession.

"Is _that_ it?" she asks, cupping a squirming, yawning Pantalaimon who had been dozing. "Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes."

"You used me," Lyra points out, giving him a knowing look. He doesn't deny or confirm this. Stelmaria chuffs out a laugh. "The shopkeeper didn't want to talk to you and sell his… _whatever it is you got_ … but then he saw me. He has a photo of a little girl behind his counter. You needed me there with you so he could be reminded of her and you could persuade him."

Her uncle's blue eyes glint with a hint of pride. "That's very good."

"You could have _asked_ me to help."

"I thought it best to unburden you from a decision," he says monotonously, heading towards the road. Lyra makes a show of rolling her eyes, grumpily chomping away. "Also… you are far more convincing when you aren't anticipating what to say next… …"

Lyra sighs in amusement, her chocolat-smeared lips quirking.

"I am, aren't I?"

A breathy, near-reverberating chuckle escapes him. Lyra wants to hold onto that tenderness between them forever. Kindle it. Revive it whenever Lord Asriel forgot _how much_ he meant to her. And whenever she meant anything to him.

The bit of milky, creamy chocolat on her tongue loses its taste.

She does, she does, Lyra tells herself.

Her uncle always listens to what she wants from the North, and brings her back a collection of furs and trinkets and unusual, interesting stories of his adventures. He listens to Lyra read tomes and scholastic journals and helps her pronounce the words she still stumbles over. He hasn't punished her for running across Jordan College's rooftops — even though Lord Asriel knows she does often. He gently puts her to bed, and unties her boots, and smooths back her hair from her eyes when Lord Asriel thinks she's fast asleep, and Lyra _knows_ he must love her.

_He must._

Sometimes, late at night… she pretends Lord Asriel was her father, who had no choice but to keep her at Jordan College… there were bad men looking for her and for him… and he was doing all of this to _protect_ her…

Lyra peers down gloomily at the last piece of chocolat, fisting her hand and tossing it away.

There's an alleyway on her left, and then bare, metallic cafe tables at Lyra's back. Lord Asriel has already gone ahead, up in the distance as if his niece hadn't stopped walking, with his snow leopard daemon bounding to sit herself upon a boulder.

She hears a cackle. Animalistic and high-pitched. Lyra peers over her shoulder to a creature prowling in-between the tables.

_A daemon?_

Hideous. That's the first association that comes to Lyra's mind. It has a golden and black-streaked coat, and too big sharp teeth for such a small misshapen head. A beady glower full of sorrow and malice. "No, no, no," Pantalaimon whispers, turning into a raven and pecking at Lyra's cheek when she whirls around, facing the stranger's daemon. "Lyra, stop. _Stop_. I don't like this."

Before she can ask Pantalaimon what he means, Lyra feels something collide heavily to her skull. And then nothing.

*

Darkness sways around her.

Lyra winces slightly, inhaling, coming to. Her ears ring so loudly. She's sure Pantalaimon calls to her, and this feels _wrong_. He's _hurt_. He's hurt more than her, struggling and thrashing against the hyena daemon snapping her drooling, huge jaws.

She's in the alleyway. Lyra realises she's trapped, arms pinned, held against someone. A gruff noise in her burning ear.

"Dr. Gerard Bonneville."

Towards the opening of the alley, Lord Asriel blocks everyone off. Stelmaria growls viciously, so deep and loud that Lyra can feel it vibrating in her chest. She can't see who it is capturing her from behind, who dragged her here, but they reek of piss. Sweat and a foul odour like malice.

The man, in his late fifties and in dark traveling clothes, gives Lord Asriel a toothy, snarl-like grin.

"Lord Belacqua… I don't believe we've had the pleasure," he says hoarsely, very close to Lyra's ear. His burly arms tighten round her. "Despite our similiar interests in all that is experimental theology, you and I have never crossed paths."

"Indeed." Lord Asriel's face remains empty, but there's a flicker of rage in blue irises. "Your reputation proceeds you."

Instead of anger, the other man _laughs_. High-pitched and ugly. His brute of a hyena daemon peals out more laughter, shrieking in triumphant. Pantalaimon quivers, getting crushed slowly under the weight of her paw, changing forms rapidly but to no avail.

Lyra's ears ring harder. Her body feels sluggish, and she half-panics, half-slumps further, unable to look up. Her skull throbs, bleeding, where Gerard Bonneville clubbed it with a pipe. _Move, move, please move_ , Lyra wills herself to clench several of her fingers weakly. She can't even glance up to see the icy, contentious fury building within Lord Asriel.

"As I am sure you are aware… this is a dangerous game you are playing." Her uncle's voice growls as Stelmaria does, lowering herself into an attack position. "Rest assured there will be no place you can hide from me if you choose to further harm her."

"How very sentimental. That's unlike you, my Lord." Gerard Bonneville leers. "You've truly embraced your role as a father."

_Father._

Lyra's eyes widen. A bolt of pure shock hits her, compelling her to raise her head and stare ahead. Lord Asriel's jaw tenses. His snow leopard daemon bristles, every inch of her revealing Lord Asriel's murderous hatred for this stranger. A helpless Pantalaimon flinches as a sabre-tooth tiger, making Lyra flinch too, as the hyena snuffles his throat, grunting with delight.

"She doesn't know, does she?" Gerard Bonneville's features seem wrinkled by his own madness and aging from his handsomeness. "Oh _oho_. The Magisterium still wants her. I was so close, years and years _and years ago_ … and yet I could not… get _close_ enough…" His knuckle strokes down Lyra's cheek. She shudders and finally groans out, repulsed by his presence. "The boy and the girl stopped me during the Great Flood. But now… _now_ … it's just you… and me… and your _sweetling_ daughter…"

"The Magisterium will refuse you the funding for your research and your laboratories if you bring them Lyra Belacqua. Dead or alive." Something about this makes Gerard Bonneville _tremble_ against Lyra. "Your insight into the Rusakov particles has been incomparable in this field," Lord Asriel insists. "We may not agree to each other's methods, but allow me to do what they cannot."

She knows her, her — _her father_ — Lord Asriel would no sooner let the other man have what he wants as Gerard Bonneville would believe in his deception. Lord Asriel is stalling for time. Considering a plan. Needing so badly to free Lyra.

Gerard Bonneville throws back his head, laughing once more. His hand slams over Lyra's mouth and part of her lower face. He digs out a gas pistol with one hand, pushing its shiny, black muzzle into her neck. "Quite impressive, Lord Belacqua," he says, straining against the bouts of hysterical laughter consuming from him and his daemon. "If I were a lesser man, I would have believed you."

By some chance, Pantalaimon arches his back leg, kicking the stump of the hyena daemon's leg. She flees and thrashes, pained.

Lyra inhales, opening her mouth and _biting down_ on Gerard Bonneville's palm, hard enough to tear his flesh.

He yowls, from the agony, and then from getting slammed into by his hyena daemon. The pistol flies into the air.

Lyra forces herself to run as Pantalaimon shifts into an eagle, dizzied. She barely makes it into Lord Asriel as he hurries into the alley and snatches up Gerard Bonneville's pistol. Lord Asriel yanks her against him, covering and shielding Lyra's bloody head with his entire left arm. Lyra only knows she's _safe_. She's _safe_ now as Lord Asriel grits his teeth, vengeful, and stretches out his opposite hand to fire the gas pistol.

A bullet lodges into one of Gerard Bonneville's bright brown eyes, and another in his heart.

The hyena daemon fades into Dust, wailing, fading out of its mortal coil.

" _Don't look, shh_ …" Lord Asriel murmurs, cradling Lyra's nape and urging her in as she tries to turn, whining out in horror. Crimson and gore-matter streaks away, mingling into the rainwater. The skies crackle and boom above their heads. " _Don't look_ …"

*

Within the grounds of Jordan College, Lyra can hear the thunderstorm brewing. It's been four days since it started.

They've deemed her head-wound as minimal impact, but a servant visited her every hour or so for the first night as she slept to rouse her. The swelling has lessened out of the more concerning stages. Throbbing pain and lightheadedness vanishes.

Lyra hasn't had the strong urge to liberate herself from the attic-bedroom, or eat, or talk to anyone. Anyone but Pantalaimon really.

"Are you alright, Lyra?" Pantalaimon whispers, settling down as a pygmy owl near her arm on the window-sill. His yellow eyes blinking, and its dark pupils enlarged. He cocks his head, watching as Lyra's expression relaxes from her bleak musings.

"Think so," she whispers, eyeing him with soft intent. "Are you, Pan?"

"Fit as a fiddle."

He puffs up his chest dramatically, hooting.

Lyra smiles so brightly and for so long that the corners of her mouth ache. She reaches to scoop Pantalaimon up, cuddling him to her and kissing him the top of his feathered, brown-and-white head over and over. He giggles, nipping lightly at Lyra's chin.

A knock raps to the attic's door. Roger shifts it open a little, peeking in.

"Lyra?"

She seethes. "I said I _DON'T_ want to see him—"

"—he's already here," Roger mutters, opening the door wider as Lord Asriel's hand appears. "Sorry, Lyra."

"Thank you, Roger Parslow." He gives the boy a close-lipped smile and a nod. "Could you bring up some warm milk?"

"Of course, sir."

Lyra aims a venomous look to a pink-cheeked, humiliated Roger. _Traitor_.

She faces back to her bedroom window, fogging up the cold, rain-dripping glass with her breath, nesting Pantalaimon against her shoulder. But unlike Lyra, Pantalaimon stares wistfully over to Lord Asriel and Stelmaria mewling, pacing herself restless to the floor as if wanting nothing more than to go to him.

"I don't have anything to say to you."

The finality in her own voice quakes against the rush of Lyra's emotions. She ignores him purposely as Lord Asriel joins her on the window-cushion, his knee folding. He doesn't speak at first, gazing out to the purplish-tinged thunderstorm with her.

"That man—he used to be an experimental theologian. Dr. Gerard Bonneville researched into elementary particles. I knew of him, but mostly of his reputation for abusing women and young girls. He went to prison for a short time but eventually was released. He tried to steal you as a baby during the Great Flood before you were rescued and given to me."

"So he was after me _because_ of you?" Lyra snaps, narrowing her eyes at her father.

_Father._

She can't believe it.

"He was pursuing you because the Magisterium would benefit from having you in their clutches."

"Why…?" Lyra croaks, her dark brown eyes glimmering with wet. "I didn't do _anything_ …"

Lord Asriel sighs out quietly, meeting his daughter's stare. "You didn't…" he says, but there's something hesitant existing there in Lord Asriel's voice. She can't think about it right now. Lyra is exhausted by the secrets and untruths and _him_.

"Do I have to call you Father?"

For the briefest second, she catches him off-guard, drawling this. Lord Asriel's lips fall open, and then he shakes his head.

"… no."

"You lied to me my whole life. And I don't even know if you're sorry about it." Lyra states this like an undeniable fact of the universe. She witnesses Lord Asriel process this, going from dazed to melancholy. "But you protected me. I dunno _what_ to believe. I thought you loved me. Loved me in your own way since I wasn't yours. It doesn't feel the same when you are mine."

A shuddery intake of breath.

"I would do _whatever I had to do_ to keep you safe. Even take a life," Lord Asriel says, putting as much weight behind this confession as possible. "I have never been as afraid than the moment I saw you in that alley."

Lyra wipes under her eyes, sniffling. Her upper lip trembles.

Her father offers a grin, scooting nearer and tucking dark strands behind Lyra's ear. His own tear-filled eyes crinkle, amused.

"Lyra, what have I told you about crying…"

She sobs out a laugh, grinning. " _You're_ crying."

"Mm…"

Lord Asriel's hand touches to the side of her face. Neither of them notice as Roger peeks in again, watching as Lyra's father bends over, holding a long, loving kiss to Lyra's head-bandages. Lyra shudders from crying, grasping desperately onto Lord Asriel's other hand.

But he waits.

This is important for them.

*


End file.
